The Courtyard House: The Little Red Devil Returning from the Peninsula

The night wind in the Taihang Mountains felt like jagged ice shards, stinging my face.

Old Wei leaned against a crumbling mud wall, his chest heaving violently, the white breath he exhaled instantly torn apart by the wind. The old man fleeing the disaster had lips that were purple from the cold, while the woman holding a child had opened her tattered cotton-padded coat, tightly covering the lifeless infant in her arms. The exiled student Chen An hunched his shoulders, the sound of his teeth chattering clearly audible in the darkness.

Zhao Weiguo squatted in the wind. He was only twelve years old, his thin body like a leaf in the cold wind, but his back was straight. The cotton sleeve on his left arm was already stiff, a stray bullet had grazed a piece of flesh, and the seeping blood froze together with the cotton wadding, causing excruciating pain with the slightest movement.

On the system warning map in my mind, several blurry red dots were moving along the edge. They were very close.

"That dirt road at the village entrance... the sound of dogs barking." Old Wei lowered his voice, his throat sounding like it had been sanded. "Less than two hundred paces. Er Gouzi runs faster than his Japanese master."

"Enter the village. Laoyaling." Zhao Weiguo uttered a few words and stood up.

There were no lights in the village. It was pitch black, not even a dog barking. Experienced people in border villages would have muzzled their dogs long ago upon hearing gunfire.

They felt their way along the base of the wall, trudging through the snow, their steps uneven as they made their way in. Old Wei, relying on his memory, stopped in front of the third courtyard.

Three short taps and one long tap, the knuckles striking the cracked wooden door.

A faint smell of tobacco wafted from the crack in the door, but there was no movement.

"Aunt Qin, it's me, Lao Wei." Lao Wei pressed his face against the crack in the door.

The bolt was gently pulled off, and the wooden door opened a crack. A rough hand suddenly pulled Old Wei inside, followed by the old man, the woman, and Chen An. Zhao Weiguo was the last to step over the threshold, and he gently closed the door without making a sound as he held the hinges up.

A gaunt woman stood in the courtyard, clutching a fire poker tightly in her hand.

"Old Wei, are you trying to get yourself killed?!" Aunt Qin cursed in a low voice, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces behind her warily before finally settling on a boy. "Who are you bringing into the village? It's full of scoundrels outside!"

Zhao Weiguo didn't look at Aunt Qin. His nose twitched twice. Besides the smell of tobacco, there was a strong stench of blood mixed with the smell of moldy millet in the yard.

"Where is the cellar?" Zhao Weiguo suddenly asked, his voice not loud, but it sounded like a block of ice hitting the quiet courtyard.

Aunt Qin shuddered, instantly raising the fire poker in her hand and pointing it at Zhao Weiguo's nose: "You little brat, what nonsense are you spouting!"

Two figures suddenly emerged from behind the low wall. One was Old Liang, wearing a bare sheepskin coat, and the other was Uncle Zhao, carrying a pitchfork. The sharp teeth of the pitchfork gleamed coldly in the snow.

"Outsider." Old Liang took a step forward, staring intently at Old Wei. "You brought the locust army here, hoping to kill the whole village? Get out."

Uncle Zhao's pitchfork was aimed directly at Zhao Weiguo's chest, less than half a foot away. "Kid, watch your mouth. Our village doesn't have any cellars, and we don't have many wounded."

Xenophobia, fear, and favoritism. These villagers aren't stupid; they're protecting their own lives.

Old Wei got anxious and was about to explain.

Zhao Weiguo raised his right hand and pushed aside the pitchfork in front of his chest. His twelve-year-old fingers were covered in frostbite, but his strength was astonishing; he managed to push the wooden handle off course by half an inch.

"You think that by muzzling the dogs, turning off the lights, and closing the doors, the Japanese will detour around the village entrance?" Zhao Weiguo stared into Lao Liang's eyes, his tone devoid of any youthful panic. "The fact that the dogs at the village entrance have stopped barking means the pursuers have already entered the village. They're kicking down doors from house to house right now."

He turned around and pointed to a spot in the corner of the yard covered with a tattered mat, the place where the smell of blood was strongest.

"There are two people hiding down there, both with penetrating wounds, right?" Zhao Weiguo said with certainty.

Aunt Qin's face turned pale instantly.

"There's still grain. This doesn't taste right. Seven bags of millet, at least three hundred jin." Zhao Weiguo stared at Aunt Qin. "You thought it was safe just because it's hidden in the cellar?"

"What...what do you want to do?" Uncle Zhao's hand trembled, and he couldn't hold the pitchfork steady.

"When the Japanese soldiers entered the courtyard, the first thing they did was to turn over the stove and check if the pots were still warm; the second thing was to poke the holes in the heated brick bed with their bayonets to see if anyone was hiding inside; the third thing..." Zhao Weiguo said coldly, "to check the fresh soil on the ground. No matter how tightly you cover your cellar, the smell of blood will be immediately detected by two wolfhounds."

The courtyard was deathly silent. Only the whistling of the north wind whistling through the eaves could be heard.

Old Liang swallowed hard, his earlier hostility turning into panic: "Then...what do we do? That's the grain that two comrades from the district squad risked their lives to protect..."

"Listen to me." Zhao Weiguo didn't waste any words or try to persuade him with talk of national righteousness. He directly offered a way to survive: "Rice on top, ashes on the bottom."

"What?" Aunt Qin was stunned.

"Get a tattered burlap sack, fill the bottom with stove ash, and spread a handful of millet on top," Zhao Weiguo said rapidly. "Throw it in the corner of the main room. Cover it with some rags. When the Japanese come in, they'll find this half-sack of grain, thinking they've robbed you of everything, and won't bother with the cellar."

This is experience gained at the cost of lives. Greedy puppet troops and Japanese soldiers will lower their guard as soon as they see benefits.

Old Liang slapped his thigh: "Great! This method works!"

"That's not enough." Zhao Weiguo glanced at the courtyard wall. "The smell of the wounded is too strong; we need to lure the pursuers away. Are there any empty courtyards at the east end of the village?"

"Yes!" Uncle Zhao answered quickly, "The entire Song family is dead. The courtyard has been empty for half a year, and half of the roof has collapsed."

"Alright." Zhao Weiguo drew his pistol from his waist. The gun was jet black, the blueing had worn away, and it exuded a chilling aura.

The villagers fell silent upon seeing the gun. The contrast between the twelve-year-old boy holding a Mauser pistol and the child holding it was striking.

Zhao Weiguo pulled back the bolt and checked the magazine. There were six bullets left. He cocked the hammer, and it clicked.

"Uncle Zhao, go to the vegetable garden at the edge of the village and stomp through the snow. Make a mess of it. Make five or six footprints, and lead them eastward to Old Song's yard." Zhao Weiguo stared at him.

"What happens after you've stepped on it?"

"After you've finished, climb over the back wall back to your own house, get on the kang (heated brick bed), and go to sleep. You absolutely cannot leave the house."

"I know!" Uncle Zhao picked up his pitchfork and climbed over the wall.

"Aunt Qin, go to the kitchen, scoop out a ladle of cold water, and put out half of the fire in the stove. Leave a little smoke." Zhao Weiguo continued to give orders, "Find a tattered burlap sack, soak it in some chicken blood or soot from the bottom of the stove, and drag it from the stove to the gate of the yard. Just break it at the gate."

Aunt Qin gritted her teeth, turned around, and ran into the house.

Chen An, watching from the side, felt a surge of emotion. He was a student in exile who had spent his entire journey fleeing for his life. Now, seeing a boy even younger than himself arranging troops in this battle formation, he felt a mixture of shame and impulsiveness.

"Give me a gun!" Chen An stepped forward. "I can fight the Japanese too!"

Zhao Weiguo turned his head and looked at Chen An.

Suddenly, Zhao Weiguo grabbed Chen An's wrist. Chen An's fingers were icy cold and trembling as if they were electrified.

"Are you going to shoot?" Zhao Weiguo's voice was flat.

"I...I'm not afraid!" Chen An gritted his teeth.

"With your hand shaking like that, don't touch the trigger. You'll kill one of our own." Zhao Weiguo ruthlessly shook off his hand. "You want to help? Go to Old Song's house. Find the heaviest broken iron pot, and bring a rope."

Chen An was taken aback: "What do you need an iron pot for?"

"Smash the dog."

The wind picked up. Zhao Weiguo tightened his belt and tucked his pistol into his lower back. The pain in his left arm had gone numb; he knew it was a sign of frostbite, but there was no time to deal with it now.

He walked alone into the wind and snow, heading towards the east end of the village.

Old Song's courtyard had indeed been abandoned for a long time. A section of the courtyard wall had collapsed, and half of the wooden door was ajar. The snow in the courtyard was deep, and every step left a deep crater.

Zhao Weiguo didn't go through the main entrance; instead, he climbed over a gap in the back wall.

Chen An had already run over, panting, carrying a chipped cast iron pot. The pot was heavy, and it was covered with frozen mud.

"Put all the big stones inside and hang them on the roof beam behind the door frame," Zhao Weiguo pointed to the courtyard gate. "The door hinges open inwards. Use this hemp rope to loop the pot handle, and connect the other end of the rope to the door bolt."

Chen An did as instructed, his fingers stiff with cold as he clumsily tied a knot. "Will this work?"

"As long as someone pushes the door hard, the latch will pop open, and the rope will loosen." Zhao Weiguo squatted behind the door and tested the weight. The iron pot was suspended in mid-air, like a black weight.

Everything is arranged.

"Go back to Aunt Qin's cellar and wait there." Zhao Weiguo shoved Chen An. "Don't make a sound."

"And what about you?" Chen An asked, looking at the boy hiding behind the ruins.

"I'll cover your retreat." Zhao Weiguo didn't look at him again.

Chen An gritted his teeth and slipped away along the base of the wall.

Zhao Weiguo stood alone in the empty courtyard. The wind and snow blew into the roofless main house. He leaned against a snowdrift against the back wall and found a pile of firewood to cover half of his body.

Slow down your breathing. Slow down your heartbeat.

The red dot in my mind stopped at the village entrance, and then began to disperse.

"Woof! Woof woof!" The dog at the east end of the village barked wildly, followed by the dull thud of a rifle butt hitting a wooden door.

"Open the door! Inspection!" Er Gouzi's voice drifted in the wind, arrogant and domineering.

Zhao Weiguo had his eyes closed. He was calculating the distance.

Thirty steps.

Twenty steps.

The clatter of leather boots echoed along the village path, crushing the ice and snow. Crunch, crunch.

"Sir! There are footprints here! They're messy and headed east!" a fawning voice rang out.

"Chase!" A short Japanese command.

The sound of leather boots quickened, approaching Old Song's courtyard.

Zhao Weiguo opened his eyes, his right hand gripping the wooden handle of his Mauser pistol, his thumb pressing on the hammer. Six bullets. He only had one chance to fire; after that, he had to retreat.

Outside the courtyard, figures moved about. Three puppet soldiers carried Hanyang rifles, followed by two Japanese soldiers wearing combat caps and carrying Type 38 rifles, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the snowy night.

"The footprints end here in the yard!" shouted the puppet army squad leader who was at the front.

The Japanese soldier waved his hand.

The puppet army squad leader swallowed hard, leveled his rifle, and walked to the half-closed gate of Old Song's house. He didn't dare to push it open with his hands, but instead raised his right foot and aimed his suede shoe at the door.

The wind seemed to stop for a moment. Zhao Weiguo held his breath behind the woodpile.

"Bang!"

The puppet army squad leader used all his strength to kick the wooden door hard.

The half-closed wooden door screamed and crashed open with a deafening roar. The latch snapped instantly.

The rope attached to the latch lost its tension.

Above the door frame, the heavy, broken cast iron cauldron fell straight down with a whooshing sound.